


Perfect Plan by seeker

by glacis



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:24:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort has the perfect plan to use Snape to kill Harry.  As usual, Harry's luck wins out over Voldie's plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Plan by seeker

The Perfect Plan, by seeker.

PAIRING: SS/Harry Potter

RATING: NC17

DISCLAIMER: no harm, no foul

SUMMARY: Voldemort has found the perfect plan to rid himself of his nemesis.

NOTES: Part of the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest (Snape/Harry pairing)

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

Soon it would be too late.

The nexus of dark energy that had once been a wizard called Tom stared moodily out over the fen. He could feel the brat getting stronger, as if he needed any evidence that his window of opportunity was close to snapping shut. In less than a month, Harry Potter, the Little Bastard who Stood in his Way, would turn eighteen.

Normally, it wouldn't be a big deal, but nothing about young Potter was normal. Usually twenty one was the magical age when powers were at their peak, but it hadn't been that way for Tom, now Lord Voldemort, and he knew it wouldn't be that way for the brat, either. Early bloomers, both of them.

Hardy, too.

He hated to admit to anything that might pass for weakness, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, but he was nearing his wit's end. He'd tried direct attack, sneak attack, kidnapping, torture, bloodletting, nightmares, killing off all the little snot's relatives, indirect assault through absolutely horrid Muggle relations, and mano a mano dueling.

Potter still lived.

Thrived, even.

There had to be a way. There simply had to be a way.

Staring down at Lucius Malfoy, groveling at his feet, and pitiful Pettigrew, lurking at the side of the fireplace, he sighed. Surrounded by sycophants and not a one of them capable of taking down a simple boy.

Ignoring the fact that he couldn't, either, he snapped at Malfoy, "Bring me Snape." He had a Plan.

It was perfect.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

The one person Severus Snape wasn't expecting to find lurking in his dungeon, given that his Dark Mark had been quiescent for months, was Lucius Malfoy. He stared with great suspicion at his silvery-maned Comrade in Arms.

"What the bloody hell do you want? Here at our Lord's bidding? Late night version of a parent-teacher conference? Time for your annual shag and Narcissa won't put out?"

The last suggestion brought a definite light into the washed-out gray eyes, but regret followed soon after. "I bid you come with me at Lord Voldemort's behest," he proclaimed solemnly.

"Bugger," Snape sighed. "I've a ton of marking to do, god knows the little imbeciles won't make it easy on me, a test to finish constructing and three experimental potions on the hop. Are you sure he can't wait until next week?"

Lucius looked at him. Snape looked back. From the look of it, he guessed not.

"All right then, let me gather my things --" before he could finish the phrase, already planning the coded message he would leave for Dumbledore to let him know where he'd gone, Lucius reached over, grabbed his arm, and pulled out a battered tin cup.

"Balls," Snape grumped as the pathetic excuse for a port key snatched him away from Hogwarts and deposited him in the middle of a smelly marsh.

The day got worse from there.

Voldemort was almost completely reconstructed, but his latest battle with Potter had left him crumbling in spots. On the surface he appeared as placid as a snake on a rock in the sun ... or perhaps in a really warm night ... but underneath that facade Snape could almost taste the nervous tension. In response, his own skin began to itch, and his shoulders drew together into a hunch as the muscles along his spine stiffened.

Prostrating himself in the required manner, he intoned, "How may I serve you, my Lord?" He tried not to take Voldemort too seriously when there was a decent distance between them, since one could only live in mortal terror so long before going insane, and as a double agent he'd found dark hidden humor his best defense against being discovered. But once under the glowing glower of Voldemort's gaze, he was reminded all over again how mad, dangerous and unstable, not to mention bloody powerful, Voldemort was.

Then it was a fight to keep his hard-won composure. A fight he was determined to win and so far, had.

The change of expression on the brooding face tested him severely. He'd seen sneers, howls, and the occasional maniacal grin on Voldemort's face, but he'd never seen a smile that could only be described as flirtatious. Snape automatically looked around as far as his neck would stretch for Lucius.

Malfoy was hiding over next to Pettigrew. NOT a good sign.

Looking away wasn't the smartest move he'd made. As soon as his attention was diverted, he felt it. Snakes of magical intent slipping under his skin, sliding along his veins, dancing over his nerves. Relaxing into what he expected to be the Cruciatus Curse, since fighting it only made it hurt worse, he was surprised when the usual soul-shredding pain didn't crash over him. Rather, it felt was if his body was being irradiated with intent, the oddest feeling he'd ever been subjected to in twenty years of being Voldemort's tool. Or Dumbledore's, for that matter.

At the thought, the sensation peaked, and rushed toward his head like the headiest liquor. Clamping down on any and all thoughts of the headmaster or his role as a spy, Snape blanked his mind by concentrating fiercely on the one thing he and his dark master had in common.

Intense emotion centered on Harry Potter.

Of course, Voldemort hated Potter with a passion and wanted to destroy him down to the last molecule, whereas Snape rather liked Potter though he'd be damned if he ever admitted it, and would give his life to protect the boy. Still, the intensity was strong, and the line between hatred and self-sacrificial determination, if not love, was very thin. Easy to mistake.

He hoped.

From the death's head grin Voldemort was now giving him, he wasn't all that certain he'd pulled it off. Then the snakes that had been slithering through his system converged in his brain, and the world exploded in a cascade of shimmering silver sparks on a background of deepest black satin.

When he woke up, it was morning. He was naked, in bed, freezing his arse off wrapped in the clammy sheets, and the embers in the fireplace were cold. His muscles ached, his back hurt, his neck was stiff and he had a tension headache that felt much like an iron skullcap three sizes too small for his head was clamped under his hair.

Not the usual Tuesday morning, even after a round with Voldemort.

The thought cleared the last fuzzy remnants of sleep from his brain and tossed him into hyperactive thought mode. It had been the strangest audience he'd ever had with the Dark Lord, and surely there'd been a reason for it. Unfortunately, regardless of his overwhelming urge to sequester himself in his rooms and run every magical and mundane test known to man or wizard on himself to find out what the bloody hell Voldemort had done to him this time, he couldn't. He had classes to teach.

The hyperawareness lasted all day. Every word he spoke, every action he took, every reaction he felt was mentally cataloged and held to an internal measure. Was it different? Was it tainted? Was it directed?

Everything felt ... completely normal.

Breakfast was normal. The eggs were perfectly cooked. The toast warm and crunchy. McGonagall was disgustingly cheerful, Dumbledore was disgustingly perky, Flitwick was disgustingly chirpy. The students were at their irritating worst, chattering loudly. All normal.

His first three classes were normal. The first years quivered and quaked, the fifth years tried to slip aphrodisiacal herbs in the silencing potions, the fourth years blew up three cauldrons and got into a hexing fight that left three students in the infirmary with extra limbs growing from odd places. All normal.

Luncheon was normal. The salad was crispy, the rolls flaky, the juice sweet and perfectly chilled. Hooch wouldn't stop babbling about some new broomstick, the Nexus 8000 or some such foolishness, Hagrid dragged his beard in the sauce without noticing, and Lupin, back for his second go-round as DADA professor since no one else would take the job, tempted Snape unbearably simply by breathing, the sexy little bastard. All quite normal.

Afternoon classes were equally normal. The mixed second/third year class had one success out of forty eight failures, Potter's hair felt like silk under his fingertips as Snape petted him during the seventh years' class, and the sixth years nearly poisoned one another trying for relaxation potions, but he had antidotes ready and only one of them actually turned to stone before he could get to her. Infusion through the cracks worked as easily as ingestion in that case. All perfectly normal.

Dinner was normal. The kidney pie melted on his tongue, the asparagus was fresh and buttery, the trifle a tad too sweet. Trelawney fainted in the soup, Sprout gave the usual passionate defense of vegetables over roast beef, and the ghosts, other than Binns who'd never been so in life and never would be in death, were rambunctious. All completely normal.

He went to bed that night, after staring absently at his idling experiments for three hours, at a loss as to what Voldemort might have wanted from him. After much reflection, he decided to tell Dumbledore in the morning. Obviously, it couldn't be that important, or he'd have noticed something off in the course of the day.

Instead of it being the utterly normal day it was.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

Harry sat still as a rock and wondered what on earth was going through Snape's obviously cracked brain.

It had been a day like any other, watching Hermione out of the corner of his eye to see what he was supposed to be brewing up since he'd been too busy planning Quidditch strategy to prepare and Snape was watching him like a hawk, as usual. It was a routine he'd perfected over the years. Ron got loud, Harry got watchful, Hermione carried them through. Snape hovered and made rude remarks.

Except, today, he said nothing at all. He simply stalked the floor behind them, then when no one was looking, he'd reached down and run his fingers through Harry's hair from the back of his skull to the nape of his neck. Then lingered. The touch of his fingers didn't feel cold at all, as Harry'd expect, if he'd ever thought of such a thing happening, which he most certainly hadn't.

It felt like a brand on his skin.

If it weren't for the fact that he got a completely unexpected shiver out of the caress that lingered for hours after, he'd've thought he'd hallucinated.

Snape didn't give any indication he'd done anything out of the ordinary. Rather, he'd grumbled under his breath about the quality of the snail shavings Harry had on his table, played with Harry's hair, then swept on, to carp at Ron about his diced cricket legs not being uniform size. Harry sat there, frozen but for the spot on the back of his neck under his hair that burned, and watched blindly as his potion boiled all over the work table.

That earned him a scathing put-down, which almost made the day feel ordinary again. Looking at the beetling black eyes glaring down at him, Harry felt his brain cramp trying to balance the normal Snape attitude with the oddly intimate touch.

Snape never touched ANYBODY.

Except maybe Malfoy, but Harry didn't want to think about that. It made him kind of queasy.

Deciding it must have been momentary insanity, never to be repeated, he did his best to put it out of his mind and got back to the business of the day. Cleaning up the mess in Potions, accepting his ten points off for lack of proper attention, staying awake through another Divination class, saving Neville from the Mandrakes in Herbology, giving Goyle donkey ears in Transfiguration, trying out a new formation at Quidditch practice, then in to dinner.

Where Snape stared at him all the way through. It was enough to put him off his food. Or it should have been.

It certainly shouldn't have made him feel warm, like he was blushing, or sweaty, like he'd been running, a little out of breath, and with a hard-on he couldn't explain and couldn't seem to get rid of. It was all ... quite confusing.

After escaping the Great Hall, feeling Snape's eyes fixed unnervingly on his arse all the way out the door, he went to the Library and tried to pay attention as Hermione rattled off Charms elements like they were children's rhymes. He was much better at hexes than charms, but he needed to work on them, and Flitwick would only cut him so much slack before he started assigning extra homework. Halfway through an explanation on binding charms, Harry had the extremely odd thought that Snape might be rather interesting bound up and naked on a feather bed.

He decided he'd apologize later for rushing out on Hermione mid-sentence, but he had to make it to the toilets before he came in his pants. It was ridiculous. Insane.

Quite out of the ordinary.

That night, Harry had dreams. He dreamed quite often, really, so the fact that his subconscious was putting him through his paces wasn't all that different than usual. He often dreamed of death, pain, green fire coming from the ends of wands, blood (his own and others'), boys becoming ghosts right in front of him, losing Wizards' Duels to Malfoy, the Dursleys, being buried alive under the stairs, and having Voldemort split his head open with a pike shaped like a lightning bolt.

This dream was quite different. For one thing, it didn't hurt. For another, it featured Snape, who for once wasn't sniping at, humiliating or taking points from him. Snape, in fact, was making him feel quite good. He wasn't completely sure what Snape was doing, as the little experience he had stemmed from his own right hand, some awkward gropes out back of Hagrid's pens with the few girls who weren't in awe of his celebrity, and one of Uncle Vernon's old Penthouse magazines he'd scavenged from the garbage years before. But whatever it was, it involved Snape's voice rumbling in his ear, Snape's hands down between his legs, and Snape's private parts becoming intimately acquainted with his own.

He woke up gasping, not uncommon. He also woke up coming. Extremely uncommon, ever since he was fourteen and learned about the specific application of his right hand and the wonders of disposable tissues. Twisted up in the bed sheets, feeling grimy and slimy and still uncomfortably turned-on, Harry spent the rest of the night staring wide-eyed at the ceiling and denying to himself that he'd just had the best wet dream of his young life.

About Snape.

Sleepy-eyed and grumpy at breakfast the next morning, he ignored his friends and bent his mind to figuring out what was going on. During class, he kept a weather eye on his Potions master. Who was his usual snarky, hissing self, giving no indication that he found Harry Potter to be anything other than his regular empty-headed, ill-prepared, hopeless self.

It was rather reassuring.

Until after the Quidditch match that afternoon. He caught the Snitch relatively early in the match, since one of his Beaters was under the weather and he didn't want to make her stay up on her broom for hours. Malfoy swooped and butted in and tried to undercut him, but Harry kicked him in the birch twigs to get him out of the way and did a neat barrel-roll around him, snagging the Snitch with his thumb and two fingers, leaving the other two free to shoot at Malfoy. All quite cheering.

There was the usual post-match bash-up, where he put in his usual half hour appearance before ducking out to retire to the relative quiet of the broom shed to see to his broom. His mates were used to his publicity-shy behavior and left him to it. He loved the shed, late in the evening when there was no one about, and he could lose himself in the care and keeping of his beloved Nimbus.

Only this time, as he sat cross-legged on a crate and lovingly trimmed his twigs, long fingered hands came out of the shadows behind him and branded his skin again.

His hands clenched around his broom, but they were the only part of him that could move. The rest of him was in shock. Well, most of the rest of him. His cock had a mind of its own, and the rebellious bugger was rising to the occasion, thoroughly enjoying the touch of the hands now sliding under his sweater to play with his nipples.

Nobody'd ever played with his nipples before. HE'd not even played with them. He didn't know one SHOULD play with them. Though if the sparkling nerves that seemed to be tied directly from them to his balls were any indication, he should have been playing with them for YEARS.

His broom fell unheeded to the ground, as his hands went numb, along with his legs, his arms, and his brain. The only body parts that still had life in them were his chest, the back of his neck where a hungry mouth had fastened itself, making his spine melt, his belly, where one hot hand was now rubbing, and his rock-hard cock, now waving madly in the night air as the other hot hand pulled it out of his trousers and shorts and began to move up and down over it.

That melted all the rest of his bones.

Those fingers must have had all sorts of practice, because they were finding places on his prick he'd never felt before, doing things to his foreskin he'd never considered doing, making his prick leak and spit like a cauldron right before it boiled over.

Appropriate, given that the talented hands turning his world-view upside-down belonged to Snape.

The rumbling whisper from his dream was right there, in the shed, against his neck, telling him all sorts of things, none of which made any sense, all of which were wonderfully obscene. Telling him he was beautiful, he was satin to touch, he smelled wonderful, he was sexy, he was desperately wanted. Nothing he'd ever heard before.

He couldn't get enough, of the hands, the mouth, that incredible voice or those unbelievable words.

Of course he came before he was ready. He never wanted it to end, so he'd never be ready, so no matter how long he lasted it would be over too soon. He didn't last that long, anyway.

How could he?

He was shaking, and gasping, his hands curled over the edge of the crate until it was a wonder the wood didn't disintegrate with the force of his grip. Fingers soothed his cock as it spasmed, wringing more from it, then the hand at his belly dipped into the smear of come across his skin, rubbing it in before lifting to hover in front of his mouth. Unthinking, he licked it, and that gorgeous voice, still feeding him compliments, shattered.

In an instant, the hands were gone. The warmth behind him, holding him steady, the beating heart he'd felt between his shoulder blades, the blessed purring voice, all gone. There was nothing but the air, cold on his exposed flesh, the scratchy mess drying on his skin, the broom lying at his feet, and the sense of absolute loss all the way through him to prove that anything had happened in those few insane moments.

Shaking like a leaf in a high wind, Harry tucked himself away, straightened his clothing, put his broom on the rack and his kit away on the shelf, and staggered back to the Gryffindor dorms. Thankfully no one noticed him, shell shocked as he no doubt looked, because he certainly felt that way.

Once in bed, he stared at the ceiling most of the night again, half afraid of the dreams he'd have if he allowed himself to fall asleep, half freaked out by the bizarre events of the day.

He was grumpier than ever the next morning at breakfast. Even Ron kept his mouth shut after the first teasing comment netted him a growl that would put Lupin in full wolf stage to shame. Hermione kept giving him concerned looks, but he ignored her, too. He had to figure this out.

The day brought him no luck in that regard. He watched Snape like a hawk at meals; waited for any indication whatsoever from Snape during class that anything was amiss; haunted the dungeon classroom until the sixth years came in and jostled him out of the way, but Snape ignored him.

It was all very confusing.

He'd finally come to the reluctant conclusion that he'd hallucinated the entire encounter when it happened all over again. Fighting an erection that refused to die, after dinner he'd snuck out of the dorms and headed for the stables Hagrid had built some years before for the huge horses from Beauxbatons. The piles of sweet hay had long since disappeared, but the dark empty stalls felt oddly comforting.

There were few if any more private places for a boy in need to jerk off in the fishbowl that was Hogwarts.

Having simmered for hours and hours, it didn't take much for him to come. The rasp of his zipper against his pants as he pulled his prick out, the kiss of night air against overheated flesh, the first few touches of his fingers to the wet head. He convulsed soundlessly, muffling his moans with his scarf, not wanting to bring Hagrid investigating.

It wasn't enough. Lying there on the soft woolen blanket left behind when the horses went, one arm behind his head, the other slowly stroking his cock, his mind absently played over fantasies of Severus Snape in various stages of undress and arousal, all new in the last few days but all similarly effective for stimulation. Weird how a week before if anyone'd said he'd be tossing off to thoughts of Snape naked bent over the back of a chair he'd've laughed until he was sick, whilst now that exact mental image got him hard all over again.

Eyes staring vaguely at the dark shadows that hid the high wooden beams in the roof, he was unprepared for the soundless addition of another into his solitary vice. Strong hands spread over his thighs, tickling hair whispered over his belly, and he nearly dislocated his neck staring down at the head of the man whose lips were displacing Harry's messy hand from the head of his prick.

Snape had his eyes closed, his hair falling across his cheeks and over his forehead, as he curled up next to Harry's hip and slowly sucked him off. Harry tried to say something, anything, like "hello, fancy meeting you here," or "have you gone completely round the bend?" or even "harder would be bloody brilliant" but all he could get out was "ungh!" Snape didn't appear to hear him.

Surreality reigned as Harry watched the bulge the end of his cock made as it pushed into Snape's cheek, as Snape's wickedly talented tongue wrapped around and over and up and down the entirety of Harry's not insubstantial length. Those clever, clever fingers got in the act as well, playing with his balls, rolling them round and side to side, then slipping behind them and pressing a little place a bit back of them that made his entire body feel like it had been hit by lightning.

The good kind, not the green kind.

Somehow his hands wound up in Snape's hair, cupping his skull, urging him on with the same innate skill and intense concentration Harry had when he touched his broomstick. There were other similarities between having Snape suck his cock and flying. That lovely feeling of being outside his own body yet more alive than at any other time, for one. The tingle under his skin from his scalp to his soles, for another. The blood singing through his veins and the big, stupid grin all over his face for a third.

The grin got even bigger and more brainless when Snape stopped messing about and swallowed Harry's prick all the way down until his impressive nose was buried in the twisty curls of hair at the base. Not content with wowing Harry with his skills as a sword swallower, Snape then proceeded to swallow around him, causing a chain reaction in Harry's hips, sending them dancing all over the blanket. It must have inspired Snape, because his next party trick was to ... hum.

Before he could wrap his brain around the fact that he was going to come in Snape's mouth, he had, and Snape responded by sucking harder than ever, as if he could drain Harry dry, or suck his spine right out through the end of his cock. The feeling was so intense Harry literally blacked out for a moment.

When he came to, he was alone. For half a second he was certain it had been another bizarrely vivid hallucination, then he glanced down and saw three strands of long, inky black hair wound round his knuckles.

It had been real.

God only knew what he was going to do about it, because Harry sure as hell didn't.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

He didn't know what devious mischief Potter was planning, but Snape didn't trust his attitude. The lad had been cranky and suspicious, not standard Gryffindor attributes and not what Snape was used to seeing from Potter. Watchful, yes, but the look in the big green eyes bordered on paranoid, fixing on Snape when he thought Snape wouldn't notice then skittering away when Snape glared back.

Potter bore watching.

As always.

It didn't occur to him that the irritation that usually struck him when he thought of his obligation to watch over Harry was nowhere in evidence. In fact, for a man so adept at unhappiness, he was oddly content. When he found himself humming Greensleeves as he stirred molten opossum eyes with mercury to test an experimental quicksilver potion, he chalked it up to his potion trials going well and ignored his strange good humor.

Classes went as always. If he divvied out slightly fewer stinging insults and took away slightly fewer points from the thicker houses (namely Gryffindor), he didn't notice. He also never noticed that he failed to tell Dumbledore anything about Voldemort's latest summons.

He was too busy watching Harry Potter.

His students were too grateful for their unexpected good fortune to worry with the whys and wherefores. Except Harry.

Who was watching Snape right back.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

As he lay in bed after Snape ambushed him in the stables, Harry pulled the sheet up over his head, touched his cock lightly and tried to keep the noise down when he came. His mind was seriously divided over the whole situation.

On the one hand, Snape had obviously completely lost his marbles. A mad teacher, who wasn't an Auror, really should be reported. But his mind boggled to the point of shutting down when he contemplated telling McGonagall that Snape and he were ... having sex. No, that was right out. He'd never be able to do it. His imagination wasn't even up to creating a scenario where he could even think the phrase in the same room as the head of his House.

He couldn't tell his friends. They would probably believe him, but he could just see the look on Ron's face when he said, "Snape blew me last night." Or the lemony squint on Hermione's face if he said, "Snape touched me up in the broom shed." Of course, given the fact that he couldn't even think the words without that huge goofy smile on his face, perhaps they wouldn't believe him after all, and he'd end up on the psych ward at St. Mungo's tied down next to Neville's parents. Gibbering.

There was always Remus Lupin. His favorite teacher would listen, not judge, and act on the knowledge. The main problem there was what form the action might take. He was, after all, a werewolf, and for all Harry knew, if his protective instincts went into overdrive he might well rend Snape limb from limb if he found out what was going on. And Harry hadn't gotten his godfather out of Azkaban, even as an escapee, just in time to send his godfather's spouse in. For eating Severus Snape.

The last real possibility was Dumbledore. Surely the Headmaster needed to know that his Potions master was cracked. Cracked to the point where he not only was almost being nice to Harry, but he was materializing out of shadows and doing magnificently delicious things to his body. Except that Harry had no proof.

Which led to the Other Hand. And what a hand it was. A large part of Harry was consumed with curiosity to see what Snape would do next. He was getting an education quite outside the curriculum, and he was in no great hurry to see it end. Particularly since he'd discovered within himself a strange fascination with Snape in all his sexual glory. The rest of Harry, that not burning with curiosity, was burning up with lust, and therein lay his dilemma. For if he told anyone, anyone at all ... Snape would stop. Or be stopped. Which was the one thing Harry DIDN'T want to have happen.

In the end, he did what he always did, and kept his own counsel. Held his secret close to his chest, and waited to see what would happen next.

He didn't have long to wait.

The next day was Friday, and he got so caught up in watching Snape's mouth move that he completely missed what was actually said in that rich, dark-chocolate, boner-inducing baritone. Consequently his cauldron exploded even before Neville's, a first for him. Snape took fifteen points off his House and gave him detention.

For the first time in his life, not only did Harry not argue, he couldn't wait. At eight o'clock on the nose he showed himself in Snape's office, nearly quivering with anticipation.

Snape looked at him like something noxious scraped off the bottom of a shoe.

Harry was confused, but he was getting used to that. He good-naturedly scrubbed the tables, mopped the floor, polished the brass scales until they shone, and washed every piece of glass in the classroom. He was turning to put away the last of the brass when Snape swooped down on him.

The brass hit the table a second before Harry's arse did. Happily it was ten inches to the side, so neither one was damaged by unfortunate impact.

Snape had one hand wrapped around Harry's head, cupping his skull, and the other arm wrapped around his waist, which he'd used to hoist Harry the necessary four inches up to slide him onto the workbench. Harry instinctively wrapped his arms around Snape's shoulders and his legs around the narrow torso and held on.

As Snape taught him how to kiss.

If he'd thought that agile tongue was talented around his cock, he was amazed at the sensations it could call forth from his mouth. His palate vibrated, his gums ached, his teeth would have clattered given half a chance. His tongue followed every twist and turn Snape's made, following it back into Snape's mouth and playing in turn. When Snape sucked on it, Harry nearly came.

Then it was back into his mouth with the both of them, and it was sloppy and deep and his jaw ached but it was worth it. He never wanted to stop kissing Snape.

He never wanted Snape to stop kissing him.

Just when he thought for certain his head was going to explode, two calloused fingertips circled the tip of his prick through his robe and trousers, then stroked down with the same slow grace that Snape stroked over Harry's tongue with his tongue.

Once.

A second time.

Harry came before the third trip commenced.

He was sobbing for breath, humping his hips, crushing Snape's hand between their bodies, his hands clenching on the fabric of Snape's robe until he was certain it would tear. His glasses were completely fogged up, he couldn't see a thing, couldn't breathe, couldn't think, and the only anchor he had was Snape, holding onto him.

Until Snape disappeared.

He didn't disapparate, but he left so fast he may as well have. Harry found himself flat on his back on the workbench, legs dangling over the edge, a wet stain all over the front of his trousers, his arms thrown out to the side, breathing like an overworked racehorse and still blind as a bat from the fog on his glasses.

By the time he could breathe again, the fog had cleared, and he sat up gingerly, grimacing at the now-cold and thoroughly unpleasant mess in his pants.

Snape was nowhere to be found.

"Well," Harry told the empty dungeon, "that was ... different."

His lips still tingled, as did his scalp where Snape had held him. He grinned, no doubt stupidly, all the way back to the dorm. All night long, during his quick wash and all the way through another dream that left his pajama bottoms sticky.

The details were a little more clear in this one. Still, it didn't compare to reality, and Harry couldn't wait to see what the next day would bring.

Being Saturday ... it brought absolutely nothing. He didn't see Snape all weekend, and ended up sublimating a ferocious sexual arousal with some truly punishing Quidditch practice. While flying was almost as good as sex, all it took was one bludger to the balls to not have to worry about one's trousers being too tight. It was Monday morning before his body was in any shape to anticipate Snape.

Of course, nothing happened in Potions class, although Harry was practically glowing every time Snape walked by. Ron and Hermione, not to mention Draco Malfoy, were soon giving him odd looks.

Well, Ron and Hermione were giving him odd looks. Malfoy was doing his best to cast an evil eye on him, but since Harry couldn't tell the difference between Malfoy's evil eye and his standard expression, the impact was pretty well lost.

Snape wasn't happy with him, either, and by the end of class, Gryffindor had lost twenty points for Harry's inattention and Harry had lost his glow. Now not only was he confused, he was frustrated. After an uncomfortable dinner during which Ron hit him on the head with a roll to get his attention from Snape back to the conversation, the three Gryffindors headed to the Library to study.

That is, Hermione went to study. Ron went to pick at Harry and Harry went to brood.

"C'mon, 'fess up, something's up. What is it? What's the Greasy Git done to you this time?" Ron's voice bounced around the empty tables, earning them all a hissed "Shhh!" from Madame Pince. He blushed slightly, making his freckles glow, and Hermione sighed.

Harry shrugged. "Nothing really," he lied sincerely. "He's not all that bad," he found himself saying, "not greasy at all."

That earned him two looks of disbelief in varying degrees, Hermione's having a shade more calculation in it than Ron's.

"Is there anything you want to tell us?" she asked quietly under Ron's squawk and Pince's second warning. It was Harry's turn to blush.

"I don't think so, Herm," he muttered, then added "Not yet" at her disappointed look.

"Ohmygod," Ron blurted. "You're not ... you're NOT!" He looked horrified. Loudly horrified. That did it for the librarian. In a trice they found themselves booted out of the room.

"Whatever it is you're thinking," Hermione informed Ron stringently, "stop."

Ron looked as if he wanted to debate the point, but before he could string the sentence together, Harry said, "Blast! Left my bag on the table," and darted back into the library.

He didn't hear what she said to Ron next, but whatever it was seemed to work, as there were no more enraged squalls. Harry crept through the book stacks, intent on avoiding Pince until he could retrieve his books and escape again, when arms looped around him from behind and snatched him deeper into the stacks.

The thought struck him that he'd never been in that part of the Library, as it was Reserved for Faculty -- not the forbidden books he'd been checking out with regularity since he was twelve, either with the Invisibility Cloak or with a teacher's note, but the actual faculty reserve collection. He might have found it quite interesting to see what sort of books the professors kept aside for their own use, if for no other reason than to tease Hermione with the knowledge, but before he could so much as look he was held tight against a lean form and a deft hand insinuated itself between the folds of his robe, down his pants, and around his prick.

It was a good thing the other hand was covering his mouth, or Madame Pince would really have had something to complain about. Harry's muffled scream would have made any banshee proud as he came so hard and so fast he almost pulled a muscle.

God, he'd needed that.

As quick as it started it was over. Snape pressed a quick kiss to the side of his neck, below the ear, over the pulse raging there, pulled his hand from Harry's trousers, leaned him up against a handy shelf, and disappeared again. By the time climax-induced vertigo passed, Harry was alone.

He was starting to feel like the preferred target of opportunity for a sex-guided missile. And he was really starting to like it.

When his legs stopped shaking, he crept out of the stacks, grabbed his bag, and headed back to where Ron and Hermione still waited in the hall.

"You okay? You look kind of flushed," Ron asked.

Harry choked.

"Maybe a little pale," Hermione observed.

He could feel the blood leaving his cheeks. His friends were a little too observant; he wasn't sure he wanted them examining him so closely moments after Snape had given him yet another earth-shaking orgasm. "'M fine," he lied much less convincingly, then headed for the dorm at a clip that made conversation impossible.

By the time they got to the common room, Ron looked perplexed but resigned to waiting until Harry wanted to talk, and Hermione looked a trifle smug and bright-eyed, expressions Harry knew from long experience. Happily, whatever conclusions they'd drawn about his sudden fascination with Snape, he knew they wouldn't ask anymore questions. After six years, they knew when to push and when pushing would make him crawl into his shell. So they didn't push.

Harry was convinced he had the greatest friends in the universe. It almost made up for the fact that the REST of the universe confused, short-changed and ambushed him regularly.

Sleep was deep and dreamy that night, and he sighed as he balled up his last set of clean pajama bottoms and tossed them in his laundry bag. Perhaps it was time to start sleeping in the nude. The house elves had to change the sheets every day anyway.

That afternoon in Potions class he found himself working alone, as even the threat of Snape's glare wasn't enough to convince any of his fellow students to risk themselves as his lab partner.

"Natural ineptitude showing in all its glory, eh, Potter?" Malfoy asked snidely as he and Goyle set up their tools, before turning his back on him.

Harry glared at him hard enough to make the robe on his back spontaneously combust, but couldn't think of a comeback. 'Anybody can have a run of hard luck' didn't mean a whole lot with the alternate definition of hard that was the cause of his recent bollixing up in class. And there was no way he was going to discuss his strange mating dance with Snape to *Malfoy*.

The short burst of temper did do a decent job of focusing his concentration, however. Nearly the entire class went by without incident, as Harry bent his head over his chopping block, his cauldron and his measuring tools. It wasn't until Snape came round the final time to pass judgment on his work that reality took a side slide into cloud cuckoo land.

"That is unlike any shade of magenta I have ever encountered," Snape purred disagreeably into his ear, peering over his shoulder. His mouth kept moving, and more words were coming out, but Harry was abruptly incapable of deciphering meaning, because under the cover of the table ... Snape was rubbing him.

Parting his legs instinctively to allow better access, Harry gripped the edge of the table, bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood, and tried not to hyperventilate. The whole time Snape was grading down his potion, complaining about every aspect from the smell of the steam to the shade of the burnt residue along the lip of the cauldron, his right hand, passing between his body and Harry's directly under Harry's robe, pressed and rubbed and circled from behind Harry's balls to the rapidly-spreading wet spot at the head of his cock.

The man was indeed a master. Not just of potions. By the time he was finished castigating Harry's potion-brewing abilities, his palm pressed hard little circles over Harry's balls as his fingers stroked equally hard up the sides of his prick, and Harry came with no further ado. The muffled squeak he gave as he convulsed was masked by the ruffle of Snape's robes as he swept away.

The near-topple he took as his bones liquefied was overlooked as the bell rang and his classmates thundered for the door. Leaning as nonchalantly against the table as he could until his legs got some strength back in them, he took off his glasses, polished them on his sleeve, and stared near-sightedly at Snape.

Who completely ignored him.

Strangely enough, Harry was actually starting to enjoy the weird game Snape was playing with him, and not just for the sex. The very unpredictability of Snape's actions reminded him of Quidditch, only instead of Harry being the Seeker, he was the Snitch.

The next class began pouring in, and he quickly popped his glasses back on his face, gathered his things, and left the room. The Divination class that followed was no doubt disconcerting for Trelawney, as for once all her predictions of gloom and doom, instead of eliciting snarky comments, provoked the same blinding grin.

Altogether a satisfying afternoon. For Harry.

Which should have made the next two days all the more frustrating, except he'd come to the conclusion that Snape had a method to his madness. Not to teach Harry patience, since Harry was pretty sure Snape didn't think Harry could be taught much. But to build the arousal to a fever-pitch, and make the next level in his sexual education that much more intense.

It certainly did wonders for his dreams. He didn't remember much of them the next morning, but the house elves had taken to leaving an extra set of sheets on the chair next to the bed every night.

The next two days gave him plenty of time to hone his ... anticipation. So much so that he couldn't actually wait until Potions class. One of the griffins went into labor early, diverting Hagrid's attention, causing the cancellation of Thursday morning's Care of Magical Creatures class. Making an excuse about needing to see Snape for clarification on extra homework, believable given Snape's history of loading Harry with three times the work of everyone else AND Harry's abysmal performance of late in class, he ditched his friends near the unicorn pen and made his way to the dungeon.

This being his nominal office hour, Snape was alone when Harry found him. He was standing next to a large cauldron on a tripod, staring into the depths as if therein he could read the secrets of the universe. Without any particular attempt at stealth, Harry was still able to walk up unnoticed. He leaned against Snape's desk and watched the Master at work for several moments.

He had it bad. Simply watching the long-fingered hands sprinkle powder over the steaming pot made him hard, thinking of how adept those fingers were at other delicate tasks. The intense concentration on Snape's face struck Harry as mirroring the look he'd had when he'd sucked Harry's prick, and the ensuing correlation between potion brewing and cock sucking ensured it would be a long time before Harry could sit through another potions class without a hard-on.

Of course, lately that was impossible anyway. He shifted as his trousers grew uncomfortably tight, dropping a hand down to push his robe aside and adjust himself. As he did, Snape whirled on him, and Harry froze, his hand on his prick, feeling ridiculously like a small child with his hand caught in the biscuit tin.

Only impossibly hard. Not a problem he'd ever had at the Dursleys', in the kitchen or anywhere else.

Then Snape moved, and Harry forgot how to think. Nearly forgot how to breathe, as well, as Snape flowed to his knees between Harry's feet, replaced Harry's hand with his own, and bent that same look of concentration on the task of freeing Harry's prick from its cloth prison as he'd had adding ingredients to his potion.

Being the focus of all that intensity was exhilarating. Harry's hands found their way around Snape's head, and Snape's tongue found Harry's prick, and once trousers were shoved down around his ankles, Snape's hands found Harry's arse. At the same moment he reacquainted Harry with the indescribable sensation of suction moving down the length of his cock, Snape introduced Harry to the dual sensation of fingers working their way into his arse.

It really took very little effort for Snape to bring Harry off. Even in that short time, however, he managed to work his fingers in up to the knuckle, and Harry found himself writhing uncontrollably, trying to crawl down Snape's throat and ride back on those lovely fingers at the same time. Being as that was physically impossible, he had to settle with rocking back and forth madly, and stuffing his own fist in his mouth to keep from screaming the walls down as he came.

The new experience of having anything up his arse during climax, especially two wicked fingers that knew just where to press, brought him to new heights, and he flopped like a landed fish in Snape's arms until he finally subsided, mewling around his chewed fist, splayed over Snape's desk like a not-quite-virgin sacrifice.

All of which made it exceedingly easy for Snape to roll Harry over on his belly, carefully tucking his spent cock between his spread thighs. The fingers withdrew long enough for the turning procedure then dove right back in, joined by another. Harry's muscles were approximately the consistency of boiled pasta by that time, so the withdrawal of those fingers and the intrusion of Snape's thick, wet prick met no resistance whatsoever.

Yet another indescribable sensation to add to a whole catalog. Harry seriously considered asking Hermione to find a book to help him expand his vocabulary, for a split second, until it hit him that finding synonyms for 'fucking incredible fucking' wasn't really something with which he wanted to ask her to help. The explanations alone were impossible.

Much like his ability to process the sensory overload his body was currently experiencing. It felt like Snape's cock was at least a foot long and six inches around, although he knew it couldn't be so. It also felt like each deep thrust rocked him all the way to his heart, and every withdrawal left his arse grasping for more.

Soon enough, it wasn't just his arse demanding more. He'd somehow managed to slide off the desk far enough to land on his own two feet, then leaned over it and held on, with his arse waving needily in the air. Snape had moved back with him, then leaned right over the top of him, his hands coming to land on the top of the desk between Harry's hips and his fists, clenched around the edge.

The position was perfect. Every time Snape drew out Harry whimpered, arse clenching, trying to keep hold. Every time Snape slammed back in Harry rose to his toes, the whimper strangled on a gasp, and Harry felt like he was stuffed with cock clear up to his throat. His own prick woke up and joined the party, jostled as it was between the desk top and Harry's body. The rhythmic slap of balls against his arse and the resulting slap of the head of his cock against his belly made his hips dance.

Too soon, he felt himself coming again, spraying spunk all over the top of the desk, shaking and driving himself back on Snape's cock, without so much as a touch to his own prick. Collapsing in his own mess, no strength left to him, he closed his eyes and grabbed his glasses as they were knocked off his face as Snape continued to plow into him. Harry was actually starting to harden up a little, for the third time, when Snape pushed into him and ... rotated.

He jolted at the raw electricity of the movement, then concentrated on the way Snape moved against him, sharp little humping movements, and the hot jet of fluid he could actually feel pumping into him. Snape's come dripped back out, pushed from him by the softening cock still literally screwing into him, and the slick wet on his balls made him whimper all over again.

This time, when it was over, Snape didn't break the sound barrier disappearing. He pulled out slowly, dragging his prick over Harry's balls then up the crack of his arse, teasing his twitching, spunk-dripping hole before gradually withdrawing. Then, before Harry could think what might happen next, Snape blew what was left of his mind to smithereens. He reached down, placed a hand on each of Harry's arse cheeks, parted them ... and licked.

The rasp of Snape's tongue over his abused arsehole, delicately washing the skin around the hole then poking gently inside to clean it all, broke Harry completely. Unable to do anything more than thrust weakly up against Snape's mouth, moaning mindlessly, sliding his cock through the puddle of come on the desk and abrading it on the wood grain there, he felt like his entire life had been building up to this one moment. By the time Snape had licked him clean, Harry would have followed the man into hell itself if he promised to do that AGAIN.

Cool air wafted against his clean, overheated, flushed skin as Snape pulled back, then the rustle of cloth as Snape pulled his pants and trousers up, tucked him away, straightened his robe. Strong arms pulled him upright and plopped him into a chair next to the desk, and Harry winced and grinned simultaneously at the ache in his arse.

"I have a class to teach. Don't you have someplace to be?"

The cold, disagreeable words surprised Harry, and his eyes shot up to stare at Snape's face. His face was perfectly composed, his eyes their normal frigid brown, but behind the usual expression was a mix of emotions, tightly suppressed. Harry frowned. For the first time since Snape had started in on him, he tried to think past his own immediate gratification and his body's sheer lust.

Unfortunately, his brain cells were at a minimum due to recent explosive activity, and Harry soon gave up on the attempt to understand Snape's motivations for anything he did. He'd try to think about it later, and if all else failed, well ... he'd ask.

Later.

Until then, he'd watch Snape walk away, robes billowing, spine arrow-straight. He'd shift in the chair, enough to feel the burn in his arse. And he'd take everything he could get for as long as he could get it, until Snape came to his senses and everything turned back into nothing at all.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

It was beginning to dawn on Snape that something might be amiss. His daily routine had varied little, but the variations didn't bother him. They felt right.

Which bothered him, because nothing had felt truly right in his life for so long, when something did, it had to be wrong.

Potter came to see him during his free hour, unusual in itself since the only students who ever sought his council were Slytherins and few of them actively sought him out during the day. His students knew he would give them his undivided attention, but by the time a problem became large enough for a Slytherin to seek assistance, it wasn't something that could be solved in under an hour, and they knew he had more time for them in the evenings after dinner.

So Potter found him alone, tinkering with a potion he'd been playing with, trying to find a more efficient calming draught with fewer side effects than the one Pomfrey currently used. He'd felt the lad approach, more than hear him, and when the potion could safely be left to simmer, he'd turned to Potter. Propped him against the desk, followed the delicious smell of him until he could taste him, then allowed his hands to wander as they willed. Leading to the inevitable, with Harry crushed beneath him, making those addictive little noises and clenching around him like a boa constrictor as he came.

It wasn't enough, and he had to have more, so he took it, lapping at the spill until all he tasted was clean warm skin, the hole like a tiny mouth pulling at his tongue. With the gradual dissipation of euphoria that inevitably followed, it struck him that class would start soon, and he had to get on with his day. He put Potter back together again and, when the lad sat there slumped like a sack of rocks, barked at him until he moved.

In the back of his mind, a tiny dissonance began. Broodily watching inept students mangle the simplest chores, he frowned. Nothing strange in the day to set up this itchy feeling at the back of his neck, but he was ... happy.

Something had to be badly awry.

He pondered it the rest of the day, barely noticing his students no doubt getting away with murder while he was preoccupied. Sometime during the seventh years' class a newt scurried off, but he couldn't bring himself to care very much. After all, in the broader view of the universe being askew, one small semiaquatic salamander escaping a death sentence wasn't a very big deal.

That evening, young Malfoy cornered him and asked him bluntly, "Are you all right, Professor?"

Staring down his nose at Lucius' offspring, rather liking the boy despite his bloodlines, he allowed a small reassuring smile to appear on his lips. "Yes, thank you. I have weighty subjects on my mind, but all is quite well."

Thankfully, Draco believed him and left him alone. Not that he'd push too far, he wasn't yet confident enough in his own power to do so, but the less lying Snape had to do, the less chance he had of piquing Draco's interest. And he didn't want to attract anyone's attention, particularly not the curious child of the lead Death Eater and head minion of Voldemort.

Whatever in his life was so right it was wrong was his problem. His secret. He would discover and dissect and solve it on his own.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

During class Thursday afternoon, Harry had the feeling question-asking time was getting closer by the moment. Snape utterly ignored him. No snide verbal jabs, no camouflaged caresses, no points taken off, no attention paid him at all. Harry ignored his work to concentrate on his professor, and even when his newt escaped instead of lying there to be gutted as it should, the resultant flurry of activity provoked no reaction from Snape. He appeared to be preoccupied with other matters. None of which had anything to do with Harry.

All of which served to make sure Harry was completely obsessed with Snape all that night, all the next morning, and into the next afternoon. While Ron was planning an excursion to Hogsmeade the next day, and Hermione was enthusing about a musty tome of charms Flitwick had loaned her, Harry decided he wasn't going to suffer through one more weekend wondering what the bloody hell Snape was up to. He was going to confront the man. Ask him questions.

Get answers.

He didn't do it during class, of course. Not that he'd've gotten the chance, since Snape ignored him again. Instead, he bided his time, and after everyone had retired for the night, he went to his trunk, got out his invisibility cloak, slipped through the corridors down to the dungeons, and made his way to Snape's rooms.

Snape himself was just coming in from his office, and Harry crept in behind him. It was a sign of how distracted Snape was that he gave no indication that he noticed anything amiss. Even an invisibility cloak hadn't been enough to mask Harry's presence in the past. Curious, Harry watched as Snape prowled around the perimeter of his room, pacing, muttering unintelligibly, stopping to stare into space with a ferocious frown, then starting the pattern all over again. He wondered if this was Snape's normal way to spend an evening or further proof that Snape was indeed loony.

Only one way to find out.

Taking a deep breath, Harry waited until Snape was paused again, staring at nothing and arguing with himself, then pulled the invisibility cloak off. He folded it neatly and tucked it on the chair behind him, then walked over to stand directly in front of Snape.

"We need to talk."

Brown eyes, pupils pinpoints of onyx fire, snapped into focus and glared at him. Harry felt himself quail, but with a stalwart demeanor learned in the face of his Muggle relatives constant abuse, he didn't let his misgivings show. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest in an unconscious mirroring of Snape's usual pose, and glared right back.

"We have absolutely nothing to talk about," Snape informed him.

"What about you jumping me at odd times and shagging me senseless, then?" Harry demanded.

"What about it?" Snape looked honestly confused, as if the question was nonsensical, and Harry spluttered wordlessly. Snape shook his head. "Up to your usual standards of verbal clarity and expression, I see, Potter."

That did it.

Harry uncrossed his arms, reached over, clamped his hands around Snape's shoulders, hauled him up close and kissed him.

Hard.

Snape kissed him back as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do so.

Harry wasn't as shocked as he probably should have been. Reality had been decidedly unreal for days by then, and Snape's refusal to see anything strange in their unbalanced little lust-affair made the enthusiastic response to Harry's kiss seem perfectly justified. Mentally shrugging off logic as his brain quickly overheated and thinking became quite difficult, Harry sank into the kiss with a sigh.

It was slower than it had been the day before in the classroom. Waiting until Harry had set his glasses safely atop a handy shelf, Snape seemed to want to take his time, unfastening Harry's robe, then his shirt and his trousers, sliding his pants down to his feet, then kneeling to undo the shoes and slip them off along with socks until Harry was naked to Snape's hands. Which were then put to very good use.

Somewhere along the way, they made it to the bed, and Snape disrobed, but Harry had no idea then or later how it happened. His entire world had contracted to the explorations of Snape's hands on his body, and Snape's mouth against his. He gave up on breathing shortly after giving up on thinking, only gasping for breath when he absolutely had to have oxygen before diving right back into the kiss.

Clever, wicked, wonderful hands roamed over his head, down his neck, along his shoulders and arms, wove with his fingers before trailing back up arms then down his back, spanning his waist, outlining his spine, shadowing his shoulder blades then swooping back down the length of his back to his arse. Dipping into the dimples at the base of his spine then sliding between the cheeks, Snape's fingers teased at his hole, igniting a hunger deep in Harry's gut.

His legs opened and wrapped around Snape's, pulling him closer, greedy sounds spilling from his throat as he pushed up against the hard cock smearing sticky fluid across the top of his thigh. "In," he managed to force out past a tight throat, his voice rusty from near-continuous moaning, the word barely understandable, as his lips were caught again by Snape's mouth before he could finish the syllable.

Luckily his movements were clearer than his verbal request, because Snape broke the kiss and arched his back, slithering between Harry's thighs with a grace and speed his House mascot would envy. Harry spread his thighs as far as he could, his knees falling back against his shoulders as Snape dropped one hand between them and guided his seeking prick into Harry's hungry arsehole.

Fire spread from the point of entry all through Harry's body, making him shake, making him plead. His hands caught on Snape's shoulders, they and the cock burrowing into him the only anchors he had as the world spun away. Snape's hands were wrapped around his arse, lifting him off the bed far enough to get ever deeper, and Harry's cramping legs unwound, ankles crossing behind Snape's back. He was almost on his shoulders now, his body bent and tucked against Snape's as he was fucked, so hard and so thoroughly it was as if Snape was trying to drive all the way inside him, take up residence inside his skin with him, never leave him alone.

Harry was all for it.

He'd been alone his whole life, really, inside, where it counted. Now Snape had snaked his way in, and Harry never wanted him to leave. One of his hands slid haphazardly down Snape's chest, catching on a nipple and drawing a growl from him.

It was so much fun Harry lingered, seeing how long and low he could get Snape to growl. The sounds he got from Snape's chest and the response from the hips driving into him were impressive. Stars shot behind Harry's eyes as he finally dropped his hand further down, clenching it around his cock and tugging hard.

That was all it took, Snape inside him and over him and around him, a single final touch to bring him to completion. He came hard, every muscle that wasn't already stretched taut or bundled tightly snapping and shaking, until he thought his bones would disintegrate beneath the force of his climax. It wasn't until he came back to himself enough to open his eyes that he noticed Snape was holding himself completely still, arms quivering with effort, watching him.

It was enough to make Harry come a second time, those molten sable eyes staring into him. Snape grimaced as Harry's arse clamped down on him again, and his control broke. Whipping his hips out then in, he pushed in and held, humping madly, tiny thrusts as he poured himself into Harry.

Nirvana indeed.

With a whoosh, Snape let out the breath he'd held as he came and collapsed atop Harry, crushing him into the mattress. Harry rather liked it. He tightened his arms and legs around Snape, blessing countless hours of Quidditch practice for his stamina and flexibility, and held on until Snape stopped shivering. It was a long time, but Harry would have been content to stay there forever.

Except, of course, that he had questions needing answers, and he couldn't ask them if his face was buried in Snape's hair and Snape's face was buried in the side of Harry's neck. Delightful as it was.

When he felt Snape's prick slip from his body, Harry took as deep a breath as he could with Snape still draped over him, and carefully shifted the bulk of Snape's body until they were lying side by side. Only then did he let go.

He waited, expecting Snape to disappear at any moment.

Snape lay there against the pillows and stared at him, normally fierce eyes sleepy, heavy-lidded, satiated. It was a good look for him, Harry decided. One he wanted to see often. He shifted, winced as feeling returned to his blood-starved extremities, and decided nothing ventured nothing gained.

"Why?" he asked softly, not sure he really wanted to know the answers but quite sure he needed to know them.

The sleepy look gradually sharpened, not as if Snape was seeing him for the first time, but rather as if Snape was understanding what he was seeing for the first time. Harry watched, fascinated, as an internal war began. He couldn't read the emotions clouding the dark eyes, but he knew a battle when he saw one. When it subsided, and Snape moved off the bed with a decisive shake of his head, Harry didn't know if he'd lost the battle or won it. Whatever it had been over.

Stalking with arrogant disregard for his nudity over to the cabinet above his desk, Snape reached in and took a bottle from the uppermost shelf. Harry didn't pay much attention to what Snape was doing; his eyes were riveted on Snape's arse, long legs and elegant back, and he was distracted with dreamy thoughts on what it would be like to fuck that arse until neither one of them could move. So when Snape returned to the bed, climbed up beside him and offered him a cup of the potion, he nearly drank it down without asking any questions.

Making it all the more shocking when, with the cup a fraction of an inch from his mouth, Snape gave a strangled cry, lunged forward, and knocked it from his hand.

"Ouch!" Harry yelped, shaking his stinging fingers. He looked over at the cup, now halfway across the room, and at the amber liquid spilling from it.

The amber liquid that was steaming, and eating through the stone floor.

Harry felt his stomach turn over. "What the bloody hell did you try to do to me?" he whispered, tearing his eyes away from the acid and staring, betrayed, at Snape.

Who looked rather as if he were going to throw up, himself. He was shaking, and the war was back on in his eyes, only this time his entire body was the battlefield.

Reaching for him instinctively, Harry was unprepared for the maelstrom that met him when his hands touched Snape's skin.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

Right crashed against realization of wrong and ripped the veil from Snape's mind.

Touching Harry, holding him, loving him, was right.

And dreadfully wrong.

Not for any of the usual reasons. True, Harry was a student, Snape was a teacher; Snape had no business bedding someone young enough to be his son; the abuse of trust was appalling. Those were all reasons enough, but they weren't THE reason it was wrong. It was right because it was what Snape desired above all else (a Slytherin rationale if ever there was one), and right because Harry wanted it as well, and that was what made it wrong.

Because on his own, Snape would never have approached the lad. Would have suffered in unhappy silence as was his wont, until Potter left or Snape squelched the traitorous emotions or Voldemort killed one or both of them. What made the right so wrong was because it was what Voldemort wanted.

Draw Harry in. Seduce him. Entrance him.

Kill him.

It was an Imperius Curse unlike any Snape had ever suffered, and it wasn't the first he'd endured. This worked less like a marionette pulling the strings and more like what the Muggles called post-hypnotic suggestion. As long as Snape's desires mirrored Voldemort's, nothing had seemed amiss.

At the point when they sharply converged, when the command to kill was invoked, it split Snape's mind in two.

A lesser man would have crumbled. Lost himself in agony as he fought against every be-spelled fiber of his being to go against his controller and save Harry's life. But Snape had been operating as a tiny light in a well of darkness for most of his life. Voldemort both underestimated Snape's power, and overestimated his own ability to invoke his will through another.

Particularly when that other was more than willing to give his life to make damned sure that will was NOT invoked.

It nearly came to that. Only the sudden, shocking intrusion of a positive wellspring of wizardly power infusing his body stopped Snape from spiraling away into death. Somehow Harry joined him in the fight, hands clenched on Snape's arms, visible energy flowing from him into Snape, melting the ice that was eating Snape from the inside out.

Seeking its target, incapable of containing their joined power within the confines of their physical bodies, neither was able to do aught but allow themselves to be used as conduits as a vivid cable of blood-crimson and sea-green twined away from them. Shooting through the magical currents tying Snape to his Dark Lord, it bent time and space to explode into a marshy clearing many miles away.

With the force of a hurricane.

It slammed into Voldemort with a fury equaled by his own rage at the upset of his perfect plan. Unprepared for the backlash, wide open with uncontrollable anger, betrayed at the last by his own arrogance as much as Snape's strength and Harry's determination, Voldemort swelled beyond human dimensions with magical fire. His corporeal being, so painstakingly reconstructed over so long, literally exploded in a cascade of sparks, rent flesh and gouting blood.

His dying scream echoed on Snape's lips in the instant before his strength finally failed, and darkness overcame him.

Snape didn't know how long had passed before he regained consciousness, a stunning turn of events given that he'd been sure he'd died. But awake he did, ensconced in a narrow bed in the infirmary, an anxious Poppy Pomfrey hovering at the foot of the bed, Dumbledore seated at his left, patting his hand where it lay atop the crisp clean sheet ... and Harry Potter perched on the other side, Snape's right hand caught up between both his own, peering anxiously down at him.

'I am in sooo much trouble,' Snape thought lazily, although as exhausted as he felt, he couldn't bring himself to worry too much. If Dumbledore sacked him, he'd understand. If Harry turned on him, Snape would be the first one to commend him for showing uncommon common sense, for a Gryffindor.

Of course reality didn't go the way he thought it would. For once, it actually worked out better than his admittedly low expectations. Staring up at Dumbledore, telling himself the only reason he didn't pull his hand away from Harry was because he felt too weak to fight, Snape licked his lips and said, "I'm sorry."

For so many things. For not telling Dumbledore when Voldemort took him. For not realizing he was under an Imperius Curse until he almost killed Harry.

For Harry.

Fingers tightened around both his hands, from both his visitors, as Pomfrey shook her head and tutted.

"For what, dear boy?" Dumbledore asked, raising an eyebrow, then swept on before Snape could begin enumerating the whole (long) list of his regrets. "You're a hero! Voldemort is dead, and you, and Harry, are the ones who killed him. The whole of the wizarding world thanks you!"

Before Snape could tell him it was a serendipitous accident and he really should be locked away for gross incompetence, Harry leaned over and kissed him. Full on the lips. With tongue.

Not sloppy tongue, but tongue nevertheless.

When Harry let him have his mouth back, and he could make his brain work well enough to form words again, Snape rasped, "What do you think you're doing?" It was weaker than he would have wished, sounding more wistful than commanding.

"Not quite sure," Harry admitted, indecently cheerful. "We'll have to figure it out as we go along, because I'm not giving up on you now."

While it sounded like a perfect plan to him, Snape, speechless in the face of such enthusiasm, wasn't sure how the rest of Hogwarts (not to mention the rest of the world, Sirius Black and the Weasleys in particular) would react. He threw a helpless look at Dumbledore, who appeared much more understanding than Snape thought he should.

With a definite twinkle in his eyes, Dumbledore reassured him, "We'll hash the details out later. Right now, rest up and leave the worrying to me. It'll all work out in the end." With a final pat to Snape's hand, he nodded at Pomfrey, gave Harry a wickedly encouraging smile, and sailed out the door of the infirmary. Pomfrey shook her finger at Harry.

"Don't tire him out too much, now, he needs his rest." Then she bustled away. Snape looked up at Harry.

Harry looked back down at him.

And grinned.

Hungrily.

Snape closed his eyes.

He had no idea where life was taking him next, but he had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn't go alone. This time by choice rather than circumstance. For the first time in his life, he had an inkling what it might be like to be happy. There were still obstacles to overcome, but they would. No hurdle was too high.

Because if he balked, he had no doubt whatsoever Harry would drag him along. By the hair if necessary.

He needed to get his head examined, because he couldn't wait.

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

Ghosting over the fens somewhere in East Cambridgeshire, the noncorporeal, royally pissed off remains of what had once been Lord Voldemort whinged loudly as he slowly dissipated. Cursing the day he ever met Severus Snape, much less tried it on with Harry Potter, he faded into wisps of negative energy then dispersed. The last cognizant thought that passed through his consciousness before it faded into a bad memory was 'it seemed like such a perfect plan ...'

&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;

END


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